Burnt

Running time: 100 minutes. Rated R (profanity, drug references).

The chef protagonist of “Burnt,” Adam Jones, is compared to Mozart, Obi-Wan Kenobi and sex. Often he is the one making these comparisons, because otherwise we might forget about the transcendent historical importance of a guy whose world is a plate of scallops.

It would be hard to name a class of men characterized by a higher ratio of bombast to achievement than chefs: Gentlemen, you’re not Navy SEALs, you make mayonnaise. Shouting “F - - k you” at the saucier and throwing plates on the floor does not make you a tough guy, just a jerk.

Bradley Cooper and Sienna MillerWeinstein Company

So Bradley Cooper, who plays Jones, is essentially the opposite of his “American Sniper” character, a man who speaks loudly and carries a spatula. His crises are manufactured and internal, yet he can’t stop talking about what a tortured artiste he is. When he puts a plastic bag over his head, you’ll be rooting for the bag.

And look, there’s Sienna Miller on his arm again: This time she’s his pathetic assistant hash slinger, who after being chastised and manhandled by him just can’t help falling in love with this arrogant blowhard.

“Burnt” is the tale of how Jones, after quitting a fancy Paris restaurant then kicking booze and drugs in New Orleans, rebounds in London where the restaurant of a friend (Daniel Brühl) needs fresh ideas. Jones’ goal is to earn himself a third Michelin star at the restaurant, but if the guy was a semisuicidal heroin addict as a 2-star chef, is a third star really going to change anything? Yet the shrink in his life (Emma Thompson) doesn’t seem to figure this out.

The film doesn’t even tell us much of anything about how top kitchens work, except that there’s lots of yelling, and bitchy quips like, “Your look is very Paris-in-2007.” Jones seems baffled by sous vide cooking — I’ve heard of that, and I dine at Subway.

“Burnt” is directed by “ER” producer John Wells as though he was working from a “Storytelling for Idiots” manual: Characters walk onto the set to announce who they are and what their history with Jones is. Uma Thurman, for instance, is the snooty Brit food critic (if it’s possible to be snooty when you work for the freebie the Evening Standard) who seems to promise bedevilment but instead just disappears, as does Alicia Vikander, who pops in and virtually says, “Hi, Adam, remember me, the daughter of your old mentor and fellow drug addict?”

About that manual: It must have been missing Chapter 1, the bit where it warns that you must make the audience care about the hero and his quest. Instead, both Adam and the stakes are so low, it’s like watching 100 minutes of a slug trying to crawl over a twig.